Apples and Oranges
by Bella Winter Rose
Summary: A one night stand became a little something more than Roger bargained for. How the songwriter met the filmmaker. PreRent. Mild MR slash.
1. Roger

Roger did not need to open his eyes to realize that it was raining. It was all in the sound: of the steady pounding on the rooftops, of the water spattering against the glass windows, of the occasional _ping_ whenever a drop hit the steel chef's table that sat in the kitchen. The roof never stood a chance against a downpour. He and his roommate would be sidestepping pots and pans on the floor the whole day, and which would be placed strategically throughout the loft to catch the droplets.

Last night's binge drinking was coming back full force in the form of a raging hangover. Roger threw his bare forearm across his eyes and groped for the bottle of water he kept at his nightstand. He took a swig without fully waking up.

Beside him was his bedfellow, whom he'd picked up after the gig he'd played before last night's binge drinking: a young, painfully shy scrawny blond boy, who spoke in rambling monologues once he'd downed a few drinks. They'd met at the venue where the Well Hungarians had been playing, a narrow hole-in-the-wall on Bleecker appropriately called Mesh—it seemed as if you couldn't move from one end of the club to the other without getting too close for comfort with another customer. Roger sat at the bar, playing with a book of matches and downing Lemon Drops as the boy nursed a bottle (which would be a total of four by the time the night was over) of Miller. He was "just visiting" from Rhode Island, but once Roger began drunkenly kissing the nape of his neck, he'd been persuaded to stay.

Roger could tell the boy was nervous once he got him into bed, the way his breathing became shallow when Roger touched and kissed him intimately, and the way he kept adjusting his glasses until Roger removed them from his face. There was enough alcohol in their systems to keep the situation from being awkward, more for the boy than for Roger. Even though Roger had slept with guys before, it was not something he did often.

Roger sat up in bed slightly, yawned and reached over the edge of the bed, running his hand along the wooden floor in search of an article of clothing. The first thing he pulled up was a pair of red boxers—not his, the boy's. He looked to his left, where the boy still slept soundly, one pale bare shoulder uncovered by the flannel comforter. He sighed in his sleep and rolled over, facing Roger.

_He really is a boy_, Roger thought to himself, studying the boy's face: a square jaw, firm cheeks, pale eyebrows and lashes, a few freckles across his elfish nose. If he hadn't said that he was a student at Brown, and produced an ID at the bar, Roger would have guessed he was still in high school.

Roger nudged him awake. "Hey. Hey, kid."

The boy knitted his brow and made a groaning noise. He shifted until Roger nudged him again and his eyes fluttered open. They were a clear dark blue. "Hi," he said hoarsely.

"Hi. Come on, you gotta wake up and head out of here."

"…Why?"

"Because I don't want to explain to my roommate." Roger could parade around all the pretty girls he wanted when Collins was around, but whenever he brought home another guy, he always felt slightly embarrassed, and ushered them quickly out the door without so much as a cup of coffee. However, judging by the time, Collins would be at NYU by now, but the boy didn't know that. Roger tossed him his boxers. The two dressed in silence, the only noise being the rain on the roof. Roger pulled on a pair of lounge pants and walked the boy to the door.

"So," the boy said sheepishly as they stood in front of the door. They faced each other. "Can I…maybe get your number?"

Roger blinked. "Well…um, well, listen…sorry, what was your name again?"

"Mark."

"Right, Mark. Well, listen, Mark, I'm not…I mean, I don't…I don't do this very often. With other guys."

The boy, Mark, looked slightly dejected. "Oh."

"I mean, it was a great night and everything. I haven't had that in a long time, but I just don't do this often."

"…Oh." Mark waited for Roger to explain what he meant by "that", but he didn't.

"I'm sorry."

"N-no, that's okay. I...I get it."

"I guess I'll…see you around then? If you come back of any of the shows. Did you sign the mailing list last night?"

"That reminds me. I forgot my camera."

"Ah." Roger watched Mark dart back to the bedroom to retrieve his bulky messenger bag, which contained his precious 16MM camera. He'd been filming the band when Roger spotted him last night. Mark returned promptly, clutching the bag to his chest. Around his neck was a blue and white scarf, which Roger hadn't remembered seeing before.

"Nearly forgot this too," he said uneasily, fingering the frayed material.

"Right," Roger said, uninterested. "Do you need an umbrella or something?"

"Umbrella? No, no I'll be fine, I guess."

An awkward silence settled in momentarily. Roger hated these moments, when he actually had to talk with his one-night stand. He was better off if they just left in the middle of the night or early in the morning without a goodbye. Confrontations just complicated the acts of post-coitus. Mark leaned up against the door and adjusted his glasses; Roger stood before him, his hands shoved into the pockets of his pants. He opened his mouth to say something, but changed his mind and closed it again.

"I'll…just go now," Mark blurted. He opened the door of the loft and let himself out.

Roger emitted a surprised "huh" before meandering over to the kitchen to start making a pot of coffee. He took the bag of coffee grinds from the freezer, poured them into a filter and then placed the filter into the coffeemaker before he glanced out the window, just in time to see Mark hailing a taxi at the end of the block, his hand waving wildly in the air, his jacket pulled up over his head. Roger watched Mark get into the taxi and drive off.

_Well, that's that, _Roger thought to himself._ I won't be seeing _him_ again. _


	2. Mark

In the taxi on the way to Penn Station, Mark felt as if he was in a daze. He cupped his cheek in his hand, rested his elbows on his knees and stared out the window, hugging his messenger bag to him. The rain showed no signs of letting up. He sighed audibly, getting a glance from the driver in the rearview mirror. Mark sank back into the faded vinyl of the backseat, feeling slightly miffed at the way Roger had ushered him out the door, as if he was ashamed or something. It was Mark's first time doing anything like that—that is, having a one-night stand; let alone having a one-night stand with another man—but for some reason, he felt no regrets.

He tried to piece together the events of the previous night, but it was coming to him only in dribs and drabs: the band show at Mesh; splitting up from his friends; Roger's easy smile; the drunken kissing on the subway; feel of tongues, teeth, lips and hands on his body in the darkness of the bedroom…the fleeting pain followed by mounting pleasure. The alcohol had definitely gone to his head and he was willing to do anything at the time.

Had he liked it? He wasn't sure. But…if he had liked it, wouldn't that make him gay? He wasn't gay, he was sure—or was he? Memories of being bullied in high school suddenly came back to him, particularly a recurring incident in which Chad Hurley would pin him against the locker room wall, calling him a dickless fairy or a faggot. Up until this point, all of the girls he'd "dated" were set up with him courtesy of his mother through her volunteer work at the Scarsdale Jewish Community Center and the temple. They'd all been disasters, the most recent of which had been Nanette Himmelfarb.

Nanette, who'd dumped him a year ago, was a well-built girl with thick, black hair and eyes to match; not to mention a great ass that all the boys in Mark's Hebrew school class lusted after. She was smart; in high school she'd been a member of the National Honor Society and Student Council secretary. In college, she was on the student government and pledged Alpha Epsilon Phi. She was also the rabbi's daughter. The match had made Mama Cohen proud, and gave her high standing at the temple. Mrs. Himmelfarb made her head of the _oneg_ committee, what an honor! Mark and Nanette became the pet couple of the congregation, a prize that their mothers loved to show off. They were "a good match, a fine match, a respectable match". And how convenient: Nanette, the rabbi's daughter, set up with a Cohen boy! "After all, you can't have a _shul_ without a Cohen," joked the _yentas_.

But their relationship never went very far. By their third or fourth date, they learned that they had next to nothing in common. They didn't share the same taste in music or movies. Nanette was pretty and popular, charismatic and driven. Mark, on the other hand, was withdrawn, and preferred to stay by himself. About six or seven months into the relationship, they'd each completely checked out; but learned how to keep up appearances so well that Mrs. Cohen and Mrs. Himmelfarb had already started planning the wedding—that is, until Nanette came home for winter break after her first semester of sophomore year at Syracuse to announce that she'd fallen in love with an Israeli boy, and they were leaving school to go to live on a _kibbutz_ in Haifa. The mothers nearly ripped their clothing and sat _shiva_ in mourning at the loss of "such a fine match." Mark and Nanette, however, parted as friends.

At Penn Station, Mark refused to look anyone in the eye, not even the woman at the ticket office who politely wished him a good morning and took his crumpled ten-dollar bill. He purchased his return ticket and headed towards Amtrak, ready to return to his mundane scholastic life in Rhode Island that he wasn't sure he wanted anymore.

* * *

Mark stumbled into his dorm room at Brown around ten in the morning. The rain hadn't reached Providence yet, but the sky was overcast and the air was cool. His roommate was awake, stretched out on his bed and reading _Being and Time_, his shaved bald head gleaming even in the dimness of the room. Mark's appearance must have been disheveled, because Benny's first utterance upon Mark's entrance was, "Whoa—what did you get up to last night?" 

"Huh?" Mark frowned.

"You owe me one, by the way. Your mom called here earlier looking for you."

"Fantastic." _Exactly what I need right now. She probably wants to set me up with the new cantor's cousin's daughter or to help me get over Nanette or something._ He unwound his scarf from his neck and set down the messenger bag containing the camera. He shrugged off his jacket.

"Don't worry. I covered for you, told her you went to the library. So…something go down after Alison and I left?" Benny smirked raised an eyebrow. He tossed aside the book.

"I stuck around the Village for awhile," Mark said, kicking off his sneakers. "Went to that place on Bleecker, saw the band you told me about."

"You saw the Well Hungarians at Mesh?"

"Yeah. Got some footage." Mark knocked on the bathroom door, and when silence assured him that neither his suitemates were in there, he opened up and proceeded to brush his teeth.

"Those guys are awesome, aren't they?"

"Mmm," Mark agreed around his toothbrush. He spat into the sink. "I didn't know you were into that kind of music."

"Why, because it's not rap or hip-hop?" Benny inquired defensively.

Mark nearly gagged on his toothpaste. "N-no!" he said defensively, peeking his head out from the bathroom. "I just…you don't…seem…like the t-type to…uhm…to like…stuff like that." He shoved the toothbrush back into his mouth before saying anything more.

"Right. Anyway, who was she?"

"Hmm?"

"The reason why it's two hours to noon and you're just now getting home. Who was she?"

Mark paused. He brushed his teeth for several seconds, trying to formulate an answer in his head. He must have been silent for too long, because Benny called out his name once more.

"Mark? You drown?"

"I…no," Mark replied. He spit once more and wiped his mouth with a washcloth. "I…sorry, what'd you say?"

"I just want to know about who you were with last night," Benny said nonchalantly. "What was her name?"

Mark casually strolled out of the bathroom. He took his time sitting on his bed, pulling off his socks. The memory of Roger's body pressed against his, the scruff of his stubble smoothing against his neck, his breathing hot and heavy in his ears, was still vivid in his mind, above everything else. The way he'd clung to Roger's shoulders, his nails digging in. "I don't remember."

Benny laughed loudly. "That's my boy!"

_That's my boy_, the words echoed in Mark's head as he shot Benny a watery smile. He couldn't help but wondering if he was anyone's boy now.


End file.
